we’ve barely scraped the surface of summer and i already feel like i’m in a drought. i dip my bucket into the creative well and come back with droplets. (surprising, considering how much it’s rained in houston lately.) but i keep coming back. stubborn and sweaty, sure, but no one can say i’m not consistent.
in droughts like this i become my most esoteric and witchy. i ask the universe for signs and feel embarrassed. i decide my crystals are more than just decoration and nestle them in my pockets or my bra. (also embarrassing, but a little more chic than begging for signs?) i try everything to beckon the muses. in this particular drought, i’ve mostly been pulling a lot of tarot cards. i don’t think the cards are sentient or contain any kind of independent spirit. you might think otherwise. i think they’re a mirror. a translator between the subconscious and the conscious. i ask, what do i need to hear? and i am the one answering back.
i’ve been using my deck as an endless shuffle of writing prompts, and i want to share those droplets with you. i hope that both you and i can be gentle with me as i ease back into writing more long-form thoughts again. maybe next month. today i drew the wheel of fortune and i think that’s a powerful reminder to us all: it’ll all come back around. drought and abundance. nerves and confidence. karma. (a relaxing thought!)
(also, if anyone is wondering, i use the omni deck by olivia M healy which is so gorgeous and will be an heirloom!!!)
six of cups
(memory, nostalgia, innocence)
hello, you. show me how you see. teach me what the word “wonder” means again-- i think i forget sometimes. come sit in the colorful lair you’ve always dreamed of and remind me what it is that you-- we-- really want. in many ways i still am you. i cry less easily, and i’ve got a few more experiences under my belt, but i’m still the girls who spins stories, who longs to hold her work in her hands, if only for proofs that these ideas and dreams can exist outside of my own brain. maybe we will always be a little bit sad, but we have people who will help alleviate the heaviness. a whole caravan of love and space and time. so show me-- what tickles your heart? even if it feels taboo or weird. (especially if it feels taboo or weird.) you’ll figure it out. you always manage. your imagination is a glimmering lake, teal and complex down to the very bottom. i love you i love you i love you. you are funny and expansive and VERY pretty and no one cares. do not let the “deficits” define you. your pen is your sword use it use it use it use it
***
the emperor
(structure, control, authority)
i dream of being blazing and uncaring. i’d like to think i could’ve been dickensian back in the day, paid by the word, scandalizing everyone. maybe i should write like i’m getting paid by the word. maybe i should strike the word maybe from my vocabulary. maybe it’ll all work out. maybe i have something valuable to say. maybe i will get the satisfaction i crave, where i’ll forget the death-toll noise of the microsoft teams ringtone. maybe i can be loved unflinchingly, with room to stretch taller and take up space, space, space. maybe i could will have everything i want and need and more. the sun in one hand, my scepter in the other. wide open, strong shoulders, buoyed by more than flimsy girlboss platitudes. maybe it will be all this and more. striking through those couching qualifiers-- maybe, could, would, should, until they mean nothing, until they hold no power, only random letters on a page. meaningless. useless, where i’m going.
***
six of swords
(journey, moving forward, transition)
i’ll lose an earring on the mountain, i don’t give a shit. i’ll throw all my suitcases down. the colorful ones that get me compliments in the airport. nice ones i got for christmases past. fuck it. neon pink briefs strewn over a branch, unceremonious. slithering memories skittering like rocks down into the ravine. i’m free-soloing this shit because if not me then who / if not now then when / if not me there is no one else / there is no one else coming! there is no one else coming. there is no one else coming? what a relief / what a terrifying thought. only me and my six swords, strapped to my belt. they shimmer in their sheaths. they hum with possibility. i stop to gulp ice-cold water to soothe my throat. i scream it all into the canyon. i gulp again. gulp. soothe. gulp. soothe. i am panting like a child, wiping it from the corners of my chapsticked mouth. i am angry and ugly and beautiful and placid in turns. i say my prayers even if i don't always believe them. i keep walking. i rest when i need. i keep walking. my knuckles bleed. i keep walking. i am both hungry and full. i cry more than once. i am eight and fourteen and sixteen and eighteen and twenty-two and twenty-five and forty-five and seventy-five in the span of five minutes. i wither and plump in the sun and the shade. i think about singing “the climb” for five more minutes before i actually start singing. once i start to sing i can’t stop. i cycle through every catalog i know. beatles deep cuts and the songs my crushes recommend me and my top 30 taylor swift. i am off key and no one can hear me and i am grinning. these rocks were here before me and they will be here long after me. i am small in their gargantuan context and still i weep over even smaller crumbs. i don’t think that perspective shift will ever change me and that is okay. up here i don’t have to act unbothered or pleasant. at this elevation there are no lock-box impossible puzzles of trauma or war or esoteric crushes to solve. only the next step and the next and the next and the next and the—
***
wheel of fortune
(cycles, karma, destiny)
it would be too easy, wouldn’t it? a path chartered out for me in exacting angles. turn left at this exact longitude and latitude to reach the apex of career. don’t miss the painted rock. your one great love is waiting just twenty feet north. (or maybe two great loves, if carrie bradshaw is to be believed.) i can fight it or surrender or drive past the psychic’s neon light three days in a row and life will still churn. this is not to say that i don’t have a hand in things but it is to say that i forget how delicious life can be when i let it surprise me a little. i feel that i’m always writing about this and i never learn. if my hand scribbles it enough maybe my heart will get the memo. maybe the stoic face on the tarot card is saying enough. or buckle in. or ground your toes in the sand and let the tide engulf your shins. i never know if the universe is saying “fight back” or “let go”. maybe it’s a both/and.
the crossing out of the maybes
I love this and I love you!!!!
Manifesting a quick end to the drought 🫶